As some people know, I have a whole host of unfinished projects at the back of my computer. One of them is a third Constance of York novel, taking up the story from the end of
Within the Fetterlock. Its working title is
What Constance Did Next. (A bit tongue-in-cheek that!)
Anyway, the reality is I may well never complete it. If by some chance I do, a little preview will do no harm. So here it is. Please bear in mind that this is the equivalent of "green beer" - it has not been polished or edited, it's a first draft. You may enjoy it - or not. Anyway, it's a free read. We may all be glad of a few of those before the current crisis ends:
***
I am no longer a prisoner. Instead, I live as one of those attached
to the King’s court, without land or possessions or income, save
for the clothes I wear, and, hidden away in my only travelling-chest,
a change or two of linen and a small and dwindling stock of coin.
The King;
the so-called King, Harry of Bolingbroke, my dear cousin.
Traitor, murderer, usurper - I dare not say these words aloud, though
they all but burn on my lips. Instead, I bow my head, I curtsey, I
kneel, I offer every kind of deference, and I scarcely speak at all.
Yet he must know how I hate him, how I long to see his guts spilling
across the floor, how I pray for him to writhe perpetually in hell’s
fiercest flames. He does not have so many years to live. Already his
body is rotting, so that often he staggers like a drunken fool or
slumps in his chair like an ancient. His soul is already rotted. In
his eyes I see fear- not fear of me of course, or of any temporal
being, but fear for what must come to him - no quantity of masses
bought can save him, for he does not repent, will not yield what he
has stolen. He keeps a jester close, paid to make him laugh. That
little man works harder for his wages than any in England, for what
can make Harry of Bolingbroke laugh?
Even the
King’s eyes grow weak. He reads too many books. He has built whole
libraries to house them, great rooms where can hide from the world
and his sins, and lose himself in tales of the ancients, in
manuscripts that advise princes how to govern. Once he was a great
knight who could take the ring on his lance nineteen times out of a
score; now he peers at you, not sure who you are if you are more than
a grave’s length away from him. Yet he knows what is written on the
wall. It is all too clear. He is the Mouldwarp of Merlin’s prophecy
– the half-blind mole whose line will fail. His blood will not long
enjoy the English throne. I know this, because God is not mocked, and
His justice, however slow, is sure.
This
so-called court; more like an armed camp than the seat of a Christian
king - not as it was in King Richard’s time. You may walk through
it from one end to the other and not hear a word of poetry or a note
of music and scarcely talk of anything but the war with the Welsh,
the threat of the French, and the emptiness in the King’s coffers.
There are scarcely any ladies present but those in attendance on the
Queen, and the Queen and I do not agree. I keep myself in corners. I
have needle and thread for company, and I make and mend. There is
little else to do. There is no conversation, and I lack a horse to
ride out or partake in the hunt. Bolingbroke’s courtiers laugh at
me behind their sleeves. They see in me a defeated wretch who has
lost everything that matters to her.
They are
right, of course. I have lost everything; even my faith. I still
attend mass, and I recite my prayers, but only out of habit, only as
a way of passing time. I no longer believe that anyone listens.
Indeed, there is a great deal I no longer believe; if the Archbishop
could hear my thoughts he would have me burnt, like the other poor
wretches he and Bolingbroke have burned in recent years. King Richard
never burnt anyone for folly, but of course he was the tyrant,
not Bolingbroke. I smile at the thought; Richard, my gentle cousin, a
man less like a tyrant is hard to imagine. Yet so he is called, and
people believe it, because it is what they have been told. Why else
was he deposed? Why else was he murdered?
There are
some who whisper that Richard still lives, in Scotland. I pray for it
to be true, but it is something else I cannot believe. Bolingbroke
would not have left such a matter to chance. No, the rightful King is
the Earl of March and he – despite my efforts – is still Harry’s
prisoner. A boy and a weakly puling boy at that – but he will grow.
I pray he will grow to be Harry’s bane. God is not listening, not
yet, or March would be in Wales with Glyndŵr as I intended. What a
world it is when such as I must make common cause with a Welsh rebel!
Yet I had no choice, and my only regret is that I failed.
My
brother York is here. He arrived last night with due ceremony,
bringing his troupe of minstrels, for which I am grateful, and not
bringing his duchess, for which I am also grateful. He hastens to
kiss King Bolingbroke’s hand, to fawn over him like a whipped dog,
to smile and beg for favours. People have already begun to forget
that he was the ringleader and originator of our conspiracy. Of
course, had I not denounced him, he would have escaped free of all
blame, as he had done so many times before. Yet here he is, quite
forgiven, and you would think, from the way he bears himself, the way
he is received, that he was Harry Bolingbroke’s dearest friend and
most trusted counsellor.
He
scarcely glances at me. Still less does he approach me. I am not
forgiven for my betrayal, though I forgave him for a dozen worse. I
am guilty of treason, not against the King, but against him,
my brother. Those weeks imprisoned at Pevensey must have hurt, though
they were nothing to what he deserved.
Edward
thinks he should be King. He says, though he says it very
quietly these days, that Cousin Richard promised him the succession.
He also thinks he should be King of Castile, in our grandfather’s
right. It would be laughable, were it not pathetic. No one trusts
him. He has betrayed too many men better than himself, brought about
their deaths by his scheming and folly, while escaping unharmed
himself. He cannot quite live it down. Men are happy to laugh with
him, to ride with him in pursuit of the stag or the hare, but they
will never follow him. So he will never wear a crown, no matter how
much he craves one.
Someone
stands before me; a young man, wearing a lawyer’s gown. As I glance
up, he doffs his hood and bows, and waits for me to speak. What new
mockery is this?
‘Well,
sir?’ I say.
‘Madam,
my name is Hugh Holgot.’ He bows again. ‘I am an attorney-at-law,
and I hope that I may be of service to your ladyship.’
‘You
do, do you?’ He is a small fellow, somewhat stooping in his
posture, but his eyes are bright and clear, and sparkle with
intelligence. ‘In my experience,’ I say, ‘lawyers expect to be
paid for their services, and I have no means with which to reward
you.’
‘Perhaps
not at this time; but once you have your lands again, you will have
very considerable means, and the need to employ a man of business. In
the mean time, I can wait for payment, for I know that the wait will
be worthwhile.’
‘The
King has promised me my lands.’ I must wait a while, that is all.
‘The
King is a busy man, my lady; and a sick one. He has diverse matters
on his mind, and many seeking his favour. I would suggest a petition
by way of reminder. Let us begin with your goods, which I understand
are in the custody of the Treasurer of the Household. There is no
real reason for these to be withheld from you. The matter has
doubtless been overlooked. With your permission, I will draft a
suitable petition, and see it put into the right hand.’
I think
for a moment. No doubt this fellow will charge me some ludicrous sum,
after the way of lawyers, and then add interest to boot. But then
again, what have I to lose?
‘Very
well,’ I say, ‘you may draft the petition, and I shall sign and
seal it. So be it you understand that I can by no means pay you so
much as a penny until such time as I am in my own again.’
He thanks
me, fawning as though I have granted him a great favour, bows again,
and makes his way off. No doubt to find parchment and ink, so brisk
is he in his business. I have barely returned to my stitching when
another stands before me; this time, to my surprise, my brother York.
‘Who
was that fellow?’ he asks abruptly. That is all he says; not a word
of apology, or greeting, or common courtesy.
‘That
is my man-of-business,’ I say. I resume my work as though he is not
there, as I have no wish to encourage him.
‘You
have a man-of-business?’ He half snorts, half laughs at the
thought. ‘What does he do? Count your pins for you?’
‘It is
certainly no concern of yours.’ I know that I am scowling, and I
try to ignore him, but he is a very hard man to ignore. He stares
down at me, a crooked half-smile playing about his lips as though he
is considering a joke. He lifts his foot high enough to place it on
the cushion next to me, and draws so close I can feel his breath on
my face.
‘What
is it that you want, Constance?’ he asks.
‘I want
you to go to the Devil and burn in Hell!’ I raise my voice just
enough for the heads nearest to us to turn towards us in interest. It
is unfortunate, for I know that my anger will be read as weakness, by
my brother and by half the court. Anger is an unaffordable luxury
when one has no power and nothing to live on.
‘To
join the rest of our family?’ he suggests, smiling and trying to
make me smile. ‘We shall all of us be very much at home there, one
day. The only question is which one of us will be nearest the fire.’
He pauses, as if considering. ‘Cousin Harry, I think, on balance;
though he will not lack for competition for the best place.’
I stay
silent, and hope he will take the hint and go away. He does not.
‘You
should consider,’ he says, ‘whether I can serve you better as a
friend than as an enemy.’
‘You
have been both,’ I say, ‘and in all truth, I cannot say that I
have ever noticed much difference from the one to the other.
Certainly, your friendship is extremely costly. Your enmity can
scarcely be more so.’
‘The
King is grievous sick,’ he says.
‘I
know; I have seen him.’
‘Not as
he is now; in bed, scarce breathing, let alone talking. Those around
him say that he is worse than at any time since the disease first
took him. That is why there is no word of us leaving here – he’s
in no state to travel. It’s also why I was sent for; he and his
Council have need of me. I am quite restored to favour. The Prince
has particular need of my services in Wales.’
‘They
must be desperate indeed,’ I say.
‘So I
may soon be in a position to help you; if you will accept my aid.’
‘Harry
and his Council may be fools enough to trust you once more; I never
shall, or at least, not until your fine words are matched by deeds.’
I avoid his eyes, his smile. I keep my voice low, though I long to
curse him, to scream and throw my work in his face.
